


When I’m Home Alone I Just Can’t Stop Myself

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, i was debating whether to put a violence warning on this, like that’s the whole fic, like there are no actual depictions of self harm but there’s a lot of discussion of it, questionable boyfriend management on everyone’s part, self harmer!pete, this isn’t supposed to be super depressing i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Patrick is getting used to coming home to find Pete covered in cuts. He’s starting to accept that Pete is just broken, and he’s always going to be like this. All he can really do is keep loving him all the same.





	When I’m Home Alone I Just Can’t Stop Myself

**Author's Note:**

> As promised over on my tumblr, the new semi-problematic peterick archetype. I think I’ll call it “cuts and kisses”. Basically Pete hurts himself a lot, Patrick kisses him, and Pete tries to convince him he doesn’t deserve love. Enjoy (or don’t?)

Patrick hurriedly stepped inside, haphazardly tossed the new set of guitar strings he’d bought onto the couch, and rushed upstairs to go grab Pete. They had to be at Andy’s house for band practice in about twenty minutes, and he knew how hard it was to get Pete to go anywhere.

He opened the door of their bedroom to find Pete sitting on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly playing with the sleeves of his shirt. This should have been an immediate red flag, but Patrick ignored it. He grabbed Pete by the arm in an attempt to drag him up off the bed.

“Pete, what are you doing? I told you we had band practice today. Are you ready to go?”

“Patrick, stop. That _hurts_.” Pete shook his arm around in an attempt to get Patrick to stop holding onto him. This made it hurt more, and Patrick refused to let go.

“Come on,” Patrick insisted, gripping Pete’s arm tightly in his desperate attempt to yank him up off of the bed. Pete wouldn’t budge.

“You come on,” Pete retaliated. “I don’t want to go to band practice. My arms hurt and my head hurts and I’m tired.”

“Why the hell do your arms hurt? It’s not like you’ve been practicing your bass at all,” Patrick lectured. He finally gave up and let go of Pete, and Pete took the opportunity to shrink back into the bed, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap and his head turned away from Patrick.

“I’m sorry,” Pete whimpered. Patrick’s expression became more concerned and sympathetic.

“Pete, it’s okay. We’re going to go and practice now, it’ll be fine.”

“I can’t!” Pete exclaimed. “I just can’t.”

“Why?”

Pete was beginning to tear up.

“I cut myself, Patrick! Again. I’m sorry.”

Patrick sighed. He wasn’t horrified or angry or scared or any of the things he had felt the first time Pete admitted to having cut himself. All he could feel was… disappointed. It always seemed like Pete decided to cut himself while Patrick was away. Maybe it was the absence of the guilt that came from stepping out of the bathroom covered in blood, or the fact that Pete wouldn’t need an excuse to hide away for fifteen minutes. Of course Patrick would have known what was happening. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Still, Patrick liked to think his presence at least somewhat discouraged Pete from mutilating himself.

“Can you show me?” he asked. Patrick wasn’t sure why he always had to see Pete’s cuts. Maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to believe Pete would do something like that without seeing proof. But that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Patrick always told himself that he had come to accept that this was just another aspect of Pete he had to deal with. Still, it could be hard to believe at times.

Pete grumbled softly as he took off his shirt. He seemed to have a thing for taking off his shirt, as if he expected Patrick to be distracted by other aspects of himself and not focus on his cuts. While it didn’t really work, Patrick would be lying if he didn’t admit to enjoying seeing Pete shirtless, even with brand-new cuts on display.

These cuts were nothing special. Well, maybe to someone who’d never seen cuts like Pete’s, they’d be horrific, but to Patrick they were nothing special. Little red lines, cutting across his arms from his wrists all the way up to his shoulders. Behind the cuts Patrick could make out the patchwork of scars from previous incidents, as well as the few tattoos Pete had gotten before he’d decided that razor blades were a much more effective and inexpensive way to hurt. He’d never run out of ideas either-cutting was always simple, methodical, just little slices all over.

Patrick took Pete’s hand in his own. He raised it up, gazing intently at Pete’s mangled arm. It was easy to get lost. Cuts don’t lead to any kind of focal point; they’re just a beautiful bloody mess all over. Patrick would never tell Pete for fear of inciting more self harm, but sometimes he liked getting lost in that red maze. It was almost beautiful.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Pete said guiltily. “I know you said to stop, but I had to.”

Patrick shook his head. He had a habit of half heartedly telling Pete not to do it again every time those cuts appeared, but he’d accepted that it was pointless. If Pete wanted to cut, he would. Always.

“You’re okay,” Patrick assured him. “I know you can’t help it.” He squeezed Pete’s hand gently and smiled sweetly at him.

“But I can, I can, I just don’t,” Pete argued. “If I just tried-“

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Patrick cut him off. “You got overwhelmed. You had to. I know.”

“I just really wanted to. And I have no self control…”

“It’s okay. I’ll call Joe and Andy, alright? We can stay home. Rest. Calm down.”

“Okay.” Pete let go of Patrick’s hand. He flopped sideways onto the bed, laying his head down on the pillow and gazing up at Patrick longingly.

“Just let me go call them, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Patrick stepped out of the bedroom to find his cell phone, and called Andy. He’d done this before. Probably too many times.

“Hey, Andy. We’re not going to make it to practice. Pete’s not feeling well.”

He knew Andy knew what that meant. No one ever said it, but everyone knew. It was part of being in the band and just being around Pete all the time. Eventually everyone just realized how broken Pete was, and they just went along with it.

“That sucks,” Andy said with a twinge of sympathy. “Tell him I hope he feels better.”

Everyone said that. Everyone knew it was bullshit. Everyone knew Pete wasn’t going to get better.

“Will do. Have fun with Joe, I guess,” Patrick replied.

“Yeah. Cool. Later, dude.”

“Later.”

Patrick hung up and rushed back into the bedroom. Pete was lying in bed just how he’d been when Patrick left. He was still in his trademark black jeans, and his arms were held close to his bare chest in a way that still allowed Patrick to see those cuts in all their disgusting glory. And yet, he was… adorable.

“Can you lay with me for a while?” Pete whimpered. He sounded so desperate and sweet. It was hard not to find it cute.

“Of course,” Patrick replied, crawling into bed next to him. The two lied on top of the covers facing one another, and Patrick rested his hand on Pete’s shoulder. He slowly dragged it down Pete’s arm, gently tracing all his little cuts. Pete hardly flinched. It felt good, almost intimate even, to have Patrick touch his cuts like that. That loving caress against his open wounds made him feel so warm inside. It was unhealthy, but it was beautiful.

“I’m so broken,” Pete mused.

“I don’t care,” Patrick assured him.

“How though? How can you look at me, how can you look at all my cuts and scars and see anything but a freak?”

“You know how much I hate it when you call yourself that.” The word ‘freak’ always made Patrick’s skin crawl. “You’re my baby. I’m always going to love you.”

“But I’m a monster, Patrick. I’m an addict. Any normal person would throw me in a cage and demand I get better before they could ever love me.”

“I guess I’m not a normal person then.”

“But don’t you ever feel guilty about it? Doesn’t it ever make you feel bad when I cut myself? I know you wish I would stop. Doesn’t it hurt you that I can’t do it? Wouldn’t you want to send me to someone who can fix me?”

“Pete, _of course_ it makes me sad to see you cut yourself. But I’m not going to send you away. I know what that does to you.”

“That was years ago, Patrick.”

“Yes, but it did something to you! You came back utterly wrecked, and that’s saying something because you went in wanting to kill yourself. But it certainly didn’t fix you. If it did, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I’d rather you be broken like this than risk hurting you even more by trying to fix you.”

“Are you ever afraid I’m going to try that again?”

Patrick paused. He hated when Pete asked something like this. He liked to pretend that the monster in Pete’s mind didn’t scare him, but it did. Every night he’d wrap his arms around Pete for fear of him deciding to get up and try to kill himself in the middle of the night. He’d done it before. Losing Pete was the one thing that terrified Patrick most in the world. But he didn’t want to make him feel guilty about it.

“I don’t think you would. Would you?”

“No. Cuts make me feel okay enough. I just know it scared you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not! They’re ugly and gross, and they just remind you of how absolutely torn up I am inside. No wonder you don’t want to try and have someone fix me, you know I can’t be repaired. I’m a mess, Patrick. I’m an ugly mess.”

“Pete… you’re more beautiful than you could ever imagine.” Patrick leaned down and gently kissed Pete’s arm. He could swear he tasted blood on his lips, but that was impossible. The cuts weren’t bleeding anymore. He kissed Pete again and again, planting soft kisses all over his sliced up arm. He loved every moment of it. Pete did too.

“I don’t understand how you can love me,” Pete said. His eyes filled with tears; he was just so overwhelmed by the feelings coming from Patrick’s kisses. “I’m so awful and disgusting. How can you kiss those cuts? I’m not saying I don’t like it, because I… I love it, a lot, but it feels wrong. I shouldn’t be rewarded for destroying myself. Eventually I’m going to slice everything away and all that’s going to be left is a bloody mess. I hate myself. I know I’d be better off dead, okay? I just don’t want to hurt you. If everyone could see me like this, see my horrible horrible cuts and scars, everything I’ve done to myself, they’d all agree. Something as broken and mutilated as me isn’t meant to live. I’m a mistake. I’m addicted to making myself suffer and bleed all over. I love it. I’m backwards and broken.” Pete’s words had become more stuttered and broken as he spoke, his voice racked by sobs.

“Pete… it’s okay.” Patrick finally removed his focus from Pete’s cuts and instead chose to gently run his fingers through Pete’s hair. “You’re perfect, alright? I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

“But… my cuts…”

“Oh, baby, they’re beautiful.” Patrick sighed deeply. He hadn’t known how much he’d felt that until he said it out loud. He really did love those awful little cuts. It was disgusting, but it was Pete, and Patrick loved all of Pete so fucking much. Even the self-destructive parts.

“You don’t really believe that,” Pete argued. “You’re just saying it to make me feel better.”

“Why would I do that? Pete, I love everything about you. Everything. I know you can’t stop cutting. And I don’t care anymore. I’m going to love your cuts just like I love everything else about you.”

“Why? Why would anyone love something so awful?”

“Look, I don’t. I don’t love how you hate yourself. I don’t love what makes you do things like that to yourself. But when I see you shirtless like this, and I see all your cuts… that’s my Pete. That’s you.”

Pete smiled at that. He wanted Patrick to love him no matter what. He wanted Patrick to keep kissing all of his cuts and scars, and telling him how pretty he was. It made him feel better than any blade ever could.

“I’m okay with that,” Pete told him. “I wouldn’t mind you kissing all my cuts again. I think this is good.”

“Promise me you’re going to try to stop?” Patrick asked, more out of obligation than any actual hope.

“I can’t.”

“I know,” Patrick sighed. “I think I can accept that. But just come to me when you do, okay? I have to make you feel better, at least.”

“I’d love to,” Pete agreed.

“I know.”

Patrick began kissing Pete’s cuts again, and Pete nuzzled against his shoulder as he did so. He felt safe and warm, and more loved than he ever thought possible.


End file.
